


500 Dollars

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dark fic, Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Pre-Series, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Solo Dean, Voyeurism, sick Sammy, unintentional prositute Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sammy sick, Dean takes matters into his own hands to pay for the medication.</p>
            </blockquote>





	500 Dollars

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I'm sick and bed-ridden and my mind wanders

Dean sat on the edge of a motel bed, sweaty palm flattening over his eyes, running over his mouth. He sighed, licking his lips. Sammy was asleep on the bed opposite, dormant form softly breathing. His pale face was drawn up tight, distress creasing his brow even in sleep. Dean reached over and touched the backs of his fingers to Sam's forehead. It was burning hot still. It had been almost two weeks since Sam had picked up mononucleosis, and his fluctuating fever had been present ever since. Dean and John had taken him to the hospital where the doctors prescribed him some medication that racked up a hefty bill.

"Five hundred dollars for some pills? _Five hundred dollars?_ " Dean remembered how John had complained after opening the envelope, waving the statement around and shaking his head. They had stayed put in their house for as long as they could before John insisted they had no choice but to help out an old friend in Indiana. They were always helping out old friends. Sam had slept most of the car ride to the motel, throwing off heat waves like crazy and leaning up against Dean. John left as soon as they checked in, packing a gun and some rocksalt with him in the pickup. Apparently this old friend was dealing with a poltergeist or something. Dean wasn't really paying attention when John was talking about it. He didn't think it was right that they hit the road with Sam in this condition. Still, there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could ever do.

Sam whined a little, groggy, and Dean brushed the damp hairs from his face for him. He wet a cool cloth in the sink and folded it gently over Sam's forehead.

 

John came back just as Dean was heating up some soup in the little microwave.

"How is he?" John asked, setting down some weapons on the table.

"Not good," Dean said simply.

"He woken up at all?"

"No."

John sighed. "Those damn pills better be working for what they're charging me."

The microwave beeped and Dean took the hot bowl out. He brought it over to the bedside table and gently nudged Sam's shoulder.

Sam opened a pair of glossy hazel eyes and looked up at Dean like he had no idea what century it was.

"Hey, tiger. Made you some soup."

"Oh," Sam said, voice raspy. He pushed himself up weakly with his elbows. "Thanks, Dean..."

"Here," Dean leaned over and propped up two pillows behind Sam's back at the headboard, then handed him the bowl.

Sam smiled weakly, spooning through the noodles.

"How ya feelin', kiddo?" John asked, coming to stand in front of the bed.

"The same, I guess..." He replied, sipping some broth from the spoon.

"What, the pills not helping?" John asked, seemingly frustrated.

"Not really..."

"Not yet," Dean corrected when he saw the look in John's eye. "Give it some time."

"Do these goddamn doctors even know what they're prescribing these kids? Or do they just hand out whatever costs the most?" John was starting to raise his voice, digging through his duffle for a pack of cigarettes.

"Dad," Dean started to say, then opened the door to outside and stood on the landing there. Their room was on the upper level of the two-story motel building. The air was crisp, sun going down in the distance behind some mountains and trees. The sky was a seamless blend of purple and orange and pink.

A minute later John joined him. He came out, flicked his lighter a few times and lit the end of his cigarette. Dean watched him inhale the smoke. He had been trying to quit. Apparently it wasn't working. John leaned over the rail, looking out over the trees.

"He doesn't need to hear that," Dean said, coming over and leaning his elbows on the railing next to John.

For a while all John did was shake his head and take in a few puffs of smoke. But then he spoke, gruff voice deep and bitter.

"All these son of a bitch doctors do these days is rip people off. They don't help people anymore."

"Give it time," Dean tried again, but he wasn't sure if Dad was upset because Sam was still sick or if he was upset over wasting his money. Probably both.

"We should leave in the morning. Bill told me a friend of his caught wind of something in his area, possibly a Tulpa."

"You wanna leave again? Dad, Sam's sick. And he's only gonna get worse if we keep moving around like this. He's certainly not gonna get better."

"People's lives could be at risk, here, son." John started in an authoritative voice, pushing off the rail. "Besides, the guy down there isn't a hunter. He's the mayor. He's willing to pay whoever helps get rid of this thing quietly."

So that was it. It was the money Dad was after. He didn't care Sam was sick. Dean bit his cheeks and refrained from saying anything he might regret. Instead, he kept it brief. "Dad, we can't. We can't go now. If you saw him... He's keeping it in, how bad it is. I can tell. He needs to rest."

"This isn't up for discussion," John asserted. "There will be motels there, too." John put out his cigarette under his foot and went back inside.

Dean kicked at the ground and cursed. He rested over the rail, looking down the road at the town lights and decided he didn't want to go back in, not now. So he took a walk.

 

He turned down a street that looked pretty dead. Just a few dusty old shops and sale signs in store windows. Following the sidewalk led him to a different street, one that was visibly more awake. People stood around parked cars, girls in short skirts and high heels leaned up against poles. Red signs flashed _GIRLS_ and _DANCING_. A beat blared out of the door to an extravagant nightclub. One thing was for certain — they definitely picked a gritty part of Indiana to stay in. Girls eyed him as he walked past them, curious glares and threatening grimaces. One of them was close enough to blow her cigarette smoke in his direction as he passed. At this point, he just wanted to make it to the end of the street and head back to the motel.

He noticed a car driving slowly from the corner of his eye, seemingly following him. He glanced at it but couldn't make out the driver. The windows were dark. Dean was starting to think this whole idea was stupid. He was completely unarmed and alone. What Dad always advised against. Hunters were always prepared.

He reached the end of the street, but the car was still at his side. Just then, he heard the window of the car going down.

"How much for the night?" A male voice emerged from the dark car.

Dean looked over finally, and saw a man sitting in the driver's seat, hand on the wheel. He couldn't make out any distinctive features other than dark hair.

"What?" Dean asked, in disbelief. This jerk actually thought he was... was... a _hooker_? Dean wanted to laugh, but a sickening feeling in his gut stopped him.

"How much for the night?" The man asked again.

Dean stopped walking. The man was... offering him money... in exchange for his body. Money. Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat and ignored the twisted up knot in his stomach, and then spoke.

"Five hundred dollars," he tried.

The man repeated the price slowly and incredulously, then said, after a few silent moments, "get in."

 

xxx

 

"Don't worry," the man said, once on the road and driving god knows where. "I'll probably be your easiest client. I just like to watch. And I only interfere if you want me to."

Everything in Dean's right mind told him to clock this guy one and get the hell out of the car already, but he swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and tried to distance himself from the moment, from what was actually happening as much as possible.

From what Dean could make out of the guy in the red of each traffic light they stopped at, he had dark hair and small, forgettable features. Maybe mid-forties but time had been decent to him. He was dressed okay, too. Like he came from work.

The whole time Dean was praying he wouldn't take him to the motel they were staying at, he knew how these things worked, but the place they ended up parking at was a bit further away, and nicer. It was a hotel.

The guy paid for a room at the front desk and they rode the elevator to the forth floor. The guy tried to make small talk, but Dean wasn't looking at him.

"I'm not from around here," he said.

 _Neither am I,_ Dean thought of saying but stopped himself.

"I'm in town on business. I've been here before, though. It's a good city. Nice people."

Dean felt like saying _I'm sure_ , but kept his mouth shut.

"Never seen anyone as pretty as you, before, though..." the guy's voice changed a little, went deeper. Dean caught a bitter laugh deep in his throat. Thankfully the doors opened then and he ducked out. The guy followed, finding their room and opening it with a pass card.

It was nice. Clean. When Dean saw the bed, his stomach flopped around. He was actually doing this. This was actually happening.

Not talking made it easier. When the guy asked him "you like it?" he just shrugged and fingered the bedding.

The guy actually poured him a drink from the little minibar. Dean couldn't help but think the guy must be pretty lonely if he was paying $500 to watch someone jack off when free internet porn would surely do the trick.

"What's your name?" The guy asked him, handing him the drink and keeping one for himself.

"Dean," he said, taking it.

"I'm James." He took a sip from the glass.

Dean did the same. He didn't like the way James seemed to look at him, unreadable eyes glued on his, even when Dean's darted away awkwardly.

"How old are you?" James asked.

"Twenty-one," Dean lied.

James smiled, thin lips curling up around the rim of his glass. "You don't look twenty-one."

James backed up, added a "don't worry" when Dean didn't respond, then sat in one of the chairs by the back window comfortably. Dean just stood there, shifting his weight and holding the drink out in front of him. His stomach was so unsettled he was afraid if he took another sip it would end up coming right back up.

"Take off your shirt," James ordered, sitting back in the chair, and the words hung heavy in the silent air.

Dean put the drink down on the bar and then started to shrug out of his first layer.

"Slowly," James added, watching him carefully.

Dean inspected the floor as his movements slowed down, the shirt dropping down his shoulders, exposing his bare arms.

"Keep going," James added when Dean made no move to continue.

Dean reached behind himself and peeled the t-shirt off his back, shivering as it fell to the floor and feeling suddenly exposed in front of this stranger. He felt stupid, standing there as the guy just watched, awaiting his next instruction. The lighting was too bright, the room way too silent.

"Beautiful..." James murmured.

Dean swallowed and put his hands in his back pockets.

"Touch yourself," James instructed. "Through your jeans."

Dean hesitated for a minute, then cleared his head. This was what he came here to do, and he wasn't about to back down now. They needed the money. This was a solution, and all he had to do was jack off.

He slid his hand around the front of his jeans and palmed his crotch. He dug in and rubbed the denim, but then James stopped him again.

"Slowly," he reminded.

Dean licked his lips and slowed down, starting with his breathing. If he didn't calm down now, he was never going to get hard. And this whole thing would only last that much longer. He pressed at his dick through the zipper, letting his eyelids get heavy and his mind wander. Miraculously, his body started to respond. He felt himself growing a little through two layers of fabric and silently thanked a nameless god.

"Touch your chest... your nipples..."

Dean's shaky fingers inched up his stomach, slid over the smooth skin to press into the dark nub of his nipple.

"That's it... Get it nice and hard..."

Dean took it between his thumb and index finger, twisting it and feeling the sensations shooting down to his groin and making him harder. He went to the next one and did the same until it was puckered and sensitive. Dean kept biting his bottom lip, stopping himself from making any noise. It was too quiet, and he _really_ didn't want to hear himself.

"Put your hand down your pants."

Dean slid his hand down the front of his jeans and cupped himself through his boxers, dragging up his length then back down to roll his heavy balls in his palm through the cotton. Dean licked his lips, throat going dry. If he was cold before, he was sweating now, his skin moist and alive.

"Take them off," he heard James say, voice breaking through the heavy air.

He didn't need to say _slowly_ this time. Dean popped the button open, peeling down the zipper at half-speed, then pushed the jeans down his hips. They fell to the floor and he stepped out of them, modestly cupping himself with one hand.

"Here," James said after eyeing up his bare legs, and dragged the unoccupied chair over to the center of the room. "Sit down."

Dean did as he said and sat down, still holding himself and adjusting his boxers.

After James sat down again, he took a sip of his drink, then swallowed. His piercing eyes never left Dean. "Let me see it," he said. "I wanna see your cock."

Dean exhaled sharply, shoulders sinking down, heart picking up speed. He closed in on himself, looking down and pushing his boxers out of the way, holding them under his balls. He stroked his dick, grateful he was still half-hard, twisted around the head at the up-stroke. He wet his lips again, swallowing down a moan.

"Take off your boxers."

Dean was halfway off the chair, so he straightened out first and then stripped out of his boxers, the final layer of clothing left on him. He was completely naked. Exposed. His chest flushed red, heat radiating off of him, color stretching up freckled cheeks.

"Move your hand," the voice didn't even belong to a person anymore, just faceless commands that Dean had no choice but to follow. "Let me see that pretty cock."

Dean removed his slick hand from himself and grabbed at the edges of the chair, shifting down it a little and looking anywhere but at James.

"So beautiful..." James said again, and Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Yeah, right," he actually said out loud, albeit under his breath, forgetting for a moment he was supposed to be this allusive, mysterious prostitute.

"You don't think you're beautiful?" James asked, interest piqued.

"I _know_ I'm not." Dean wasn't sure why he was responding, why he was talking at all.

"Kid, I'm under no motivation to lie. Why do you think I wanted you? Why I'm paying five hundred dollars to watch you?"

Dean just wanted him to shut up. He didn't want to talk. So he started touching himself again. He stroked up his length, finding himself harder than he was before.

"Yeah, that's it... Stroke that pretty cock," James' deep, lustful voice was back on. "Get the head nice and wet... yeah..."

Dean tongued over his lips again, teeth worrying away into the plumpness of the bottom one. He was biting so hard it was starting to hurt. But he couldn't help it. He slid down the chair, pumping his cock slowly and thoroughly, feeling it grow and thicken a little more in his palm. He still wasn't fully hard, wasn't sure what it would take to get him there, but he tried for the most part to clear his mind. Until James started talking again.

"Is there someone special in your life? A girl, perhaps? Someone you think about when you touch yourself? I bet you got them lined up around the block for you, bet you could have anyone you wanted... with that pretty pink cock and that pink mouth of yours... Huh?"

Dean let his lip fall out of his teeth, thumbing over his balls. The tip of his dick was wet now. "I don't have anyone..." He said, thinking about the countless girls he left behind in forgotten towns, and how many of them he would have liked to stay with, had he not picked up and left.

"I don't believe that. You've gotta have someone..."

Dean didn't know what this guy was getting at, what sort of things he got off on, like talking and all that, but Dean was getting real sick of it.

"Someone you love..."

Dean scratched at his chin with his thumb and ran his fingers over the vein pulsing up the underside of his dick. "My little brother," he said without thinking, because it was simple and honest and it just came out. He knew James didn't mean that kind of love, but he didn't want to go into detail about his life and how he was the type to love 'em and leave 'em.

"Hm... Little brother as beautiful as you are?"

Dean's eyes darted up at James for the first time, warning, _don't talk about him like that_ threatening to bubble out of him, but he bit the words back. He looked away again, back down at himself. Sammy's warm smile entered his rigid mind, colored cheeks and lips beaming bright like when the sun was on him, when he wasn't sick, and Dean remembered why he was doing all of this.

 _Dean!_ Sammy was laughing now, an image replaying in Dean's memory, an image of back home, out by the lake they liked to swim in. Wet hair clung to thick black lashes, golden sun beaming bright behind Sam's head. He was healthy. And he was happy.

"He's beautiful..." Dean mumbled into the dead air, eyes all glazed over, staring somewhere far off.

His fingers tightened around his cock, the tip pointing up to his stomach now and shining wet.

James hummed. "I'd like to touch you now... if you'll let me..."

Dean almost grimaced but caught himself. Instead, he nodded reluctant approval.

James practically crawled over and when he got close enough to hover in between his legs Dean removed his hands from himself and clutched the bottom of the seat, flushed dick resting up against his stomach.

James slid sweaty palms up Dean's thighs. At the contact, Dean felt his heart skip over a beat. He had never been touched by another man before. Not like this.

"This is your first time, isn't it?" James asked, as if reading his mind.

Dean felt like denying it, wished he could, but somehow James was calling out all of his lies so far, so he saw no point in continuing with them. "How could you tell?"

"You're shaking like a leaf," he replied in a low voice, caressing up his thighs.

When James cupped his balls, stroking them and weighing them in his palm, Dean shut his eyes tight.

"Relax..." James said, and he was so close Dean could feel his warm breath against the tip of his cock and it twitched in anticipation. "So pretty..."

A hot mouth was opening on him, soft lips tightening up around the head. A tongue swished around the slit, lapping up the dampness that had gathered there, and Dean couldn't contain the pathetic high-pitched whine his throat made of its own accord. His straining fingers bore into the bottom of the seat, gripping it like his life depended on it.

James' mouth slid lower, taking him inch by inch and hollowing out his cheeks. He took him down his throat, all the way to the base then back up, squeezing tight with his fist at the same time. Dean gasped, making uncontrollable little noises, his body involuntarily jerking when James tongued over sensitive areas.

James rolled his balls in his palm and played with them as he sucked him down, and god, it was admittedly the best damn blow job Dean thought he had ever had. He probably did this all the time.

He worked him thoroughly with his mouth, so that within minutes Dean was panting and desperate.

"God, so fucking hot, look at you..." James murmured, then swallowed him down again. Dean was practically whining all over the place now, unable to hold anything back anymore. He was going to explode any second.

"Gonna come for me? Huh? Shoot your load down my throat? Come on, wanna taste you..." James' wet fist pumped him faster, tighter...

Dean was seeing stars, practically falling off the chair, head rolling around dizzyingly. The world was spinning out of control, everything falling apart. He jerked as he tipped over the edge, convulsing and thrusting up into James' wet mouth, come spilling out down his throat. James' tongue lapped at the head as he jerked Dean through the tremors, coaxing continuous spurts out of him.

James hummed, content, then slowly loosened his grip.

Dean was still twitching and thrusting into nothing, reduced to a sweaty mess, at the mercy of this stranger. His mouth hung open, panting uselessly, head slumping back against the chair. He couldn't even move. He was afraid if he did, he'd pass out.

James stood and went over to the table, sifting through a wallet.

Dean's heavy head rolled forward. He got a handle on his body again and managed to straighten up in the seat, shaky knees uncooperative and loose. He noticed James toss a pile of money on the bed behind him and then go into the bathroom without another word.

Once Dean came to his senses, haze in his head clearing up enough to be decidedly disgusted by the fact that he _just came down a stranger's throat,_ he plucked his clothes off the ground and got back into them. He counted the money, five hundred, and eyed the door to the bathroom once before leaving. He didn't know how these things worked, but he figured once the money and the service had been successfully exchanged there was no point in extending it any further.

 

He caught a bus with some spare change in his pocket back to the motel they were staying at. He sighed, standing in front of their room and knowing at once that Dad would demand to know where he had been all night. He turned the knob and went in, finding a few lights still on even though it was a little past one in the morning.

Sam was asleep on the bed, lying flat on his tummy, bare leg sprawled over the covers. He was breathing softly, brown clumps of damp hair draped over his pale face. Dean pulled the money out of his back pocket and tossed it on John's bed.

He heard a flush in the other room and then John came out, saw him, and his expression went rigid.

"Where were you?" He asked in a voice loud enough to wake Sam.

Dean started to walk over to the bathroom, but when John came over, he noticed the money on the bed. John picked it up, counting it, confused as hell.

"Where'd you get this money, Dean?" He looked over at his son.

"Never mind," was all Dean said, and then he headed for the bathroom to wash up.

"Dean, where'd you get this money?" John asked again, this time raising his voice.

"Never mind!" Dean repeated, shouting now. He shut the door once he was in the bathroom. Washing his hands and his face, he looked himself over in the mirror. Empty green eyes stared back at him through the reflection.

"Dean, if you did something stupid, so help me god..." John said from the other side of the door.

Dean ran wet fingers through his hair and then toweled off.

"Dean?..." Dean heard his brother's small, groggy voice from outside, and he stilled.

"Dean, your brother's asking for you," John told him, gentler this time.

Dean opened the door and walked past John to sit on the edge of Sam's bed. He looked over Sam's confused, drawn-up face and smiled reassuringly.

"Where'd you go?" Sam asked him, scratchy voice cracking.

"Don't worry about that," Dean told him, then straightened the blanket out around Sam and tucked it under his arm. "Did you take your pills today?"

Sam shook his head. Dean reached over on the nightstand and handed him two orange and white pills and the bottled water that sat there. Sam pushed up on his elbows and took them, swallowing them down with the water. Dean took the water bottle once he was done and Sam lay back down, hair sprawling out on the disheveled pillows under him.

"Are we leaving?" Sam asked, glazed eyes darting over to their father.

Dean turned his head behind him to narrow his eyes on John, awaiting an answer, and John just watched Dean for a moment before saying "no. We're staying here until you're better."

John walked into the little kitchen area and sat down at the table silently.

Dean turned his attention back to Sam.

"Did you do something stupid?" Sam asked him, repeating what he heard their father say. His brows were all twisted up, big puppy dog eyes filled with worry.

Dean shook his head when he realized at once that he wouldn't go back and change a thing if he could. So if he had to pay for Sam's medication himself, if he had to take care of Sam on his own, so be it. Because their father clearly wasn't doing it properly.

"No," Dean told him plainly. "Now go back to sleep."

Sam settled down again reluctantly, shutting his eyes. Dean looked over his soft features and stroked the hair from his eyes, thumbing over the warm, dewy skin of Sam's forehead until the little crease disappeared.

No, he wouldn't change a single thing.


End file.
